"Why, it occurred to me that perhaps you might be lonely, and--" Helena Richie stopped laughing; she pulled off her other glove and looked down at her white hands. "Well, yes, I'm lonely. But--I don't like children, Dr. King." "You don't?" he said blankly, and in his surprise he sat down again. "Oh, I'm sure that's only because you don't know them. If you had ever known a child--" "I have," Mrs. Richie said, "one." Her voice was bleak; the gayety had dropped out of it; for an instant she looked old. William King understood. "It died?" She nodded. She began to pull her gloves on again, smoothing down each finger carefully and not looking at him. "A little girl?" "Boy." She turned her face away, but he saw her chin tremble. There was a moment's silence; then the doctor said with curious harshness. "Well, anyhow, you know what it means to have owned your own." "Better not have known!" "I can't feel that. But perhaps I don't understand." "You don't understand." Her head, with its two soft braids wound around it like a wreath, was bent so that he could not see her face. "Dr. King, his father--hurt him. Yes; hurt a little baby, eight months and twelve days old. He died seven weeks later." William drew in his breath; he found no words. "That was twelve years ago, but I can't seem to--to get over it," she said with a sort of gasp. "But how--" Dr. King began. "Oh, he was not himself. He was--happy, I believe you call it 'happy'?" "How did you bear it!" "I didn't bear it I suppose. I never have borne it!" "Did he repent before he died?" William King said passionately. "Before he--?" Her voice suddenly shook; she made elaborate pretence of calmness, fastening her gloves and looking at them critically; then she said: "Yes, Dr. King; he repented. He repented!" "If there ever was excuse for divorce, you had it!" "You don't think there ever is?" she asked absently. "No," William said. "I suppose you'll think I'm very old-fashioned, but I don't, unless--" he stopped short; he could not have put his qualifying thought into words to any woman, especially not to this woman, so like a girl in spite of her thirty-odd years. "You see," he said, awkwardly, "it's such an unusual thing. It never happened in Old Chester; why, I don't believe I ever saw a--a divorced person in my life!" "Well," she said, "anyhow, I didn't get a divorce." "Mrs. Richie!" he said, blushing to his temples, "you didn't think I thought of such a thing?" But it was plain that she regretted her confidence; she rose with the evident purpose of changing the subject. "I must go and put in some more seeds. Why doesn't Dr. Lavendar keep this little boy? After all, he's lonely himself." "Well, he's an old man you know, and--" "Dr. King," she broke in, "I don't mind having the child here for a week while Dr. Lavendar is looking for somebody to take him. Not longer. It wouldn't do. Really it wouldn't. But for a week, perhaps, or maybe two!"